


Just Got Lucky

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, BAMF Molly, Banter, Birthday, Birthday Sex, Chef!Sherlock, Established Relationship, F/M, Fun, Hand Jobs, M/M, Maitre'd!Molly, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, PastryChef!John, Sherlock Makes Deductions, Threesome - F/M/M, lots and lots of kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 03:27:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1842655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chef Sherlock Holmes and his pastry chef John Watson have been at it since John's job interview. Restaurant Manager Molly turns out to be Sherlock's type, and with Molly's birthday imminent, John has a good idea.</p><p>AU - Restaurant</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Got Lucky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eljesselle (justlikesomuch)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikesomuch/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Five Times Sherlock And John Met Cute (And One That Was Decidedly Un-cute)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1288150) by [PoppyAlexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander). 



> My standard note about ratings applies here: I use "M" for even graphically-described sex between (or, as here, among) consenting adults, and reserve "E" for violence/kink/non-con, etc. This story contains graphic language.

 

Service was winding down; Sherlock leaned against the expediting station, elbow close to his torso, his ridiculously expensive pen hovering near his face in a curled hand—body memory grasping at a former smoking habit. His laser-like gaze tracked every motion the line cooks made as they started to clean up, but his shoulders sloped gently down, and the creases in his forehead were as shallow as they got. John was finishing an ice cream base in preparation for the next night’s service.

Bussers brought the last of the plates, flatware, and glasses; Sherlock, as ever, couldn’t help but examine each tray as it passed to gauge how the food had gone over with the guests. Too much leftover food on the plates could send him into a sulk, or a rage. John put a lid on the big steel pot and turned off the heat; Sherlock seemed relatively unnerved by what he was seeing come back on the bussers’ trays and didn’t offer comment.

Once the pace of service slowed and the last few entrees had been fired and plated (Sherlock personally handled each plate on its way from the line to the servers, bar towel ever to hand lest there be a drop of sauce or a sprinkle of herbs out of place on the broad, white rim of a plate), conversation in the kitchen inevitably turned to one of three topics:

1)      That Ludicrous Display Last Night (Sport)

2)      Dear God, Never Again (Extreme Drunken Escapades); or

3)      You Should See The Marks (Pulling or—if Mad Baz was in the discussion—Fighting).

Tonight, Mad Baz had posed a question about “types.” All present generally concurred that more than a handful of breast was a waste; there was wide disagreement, though, about the ideal size and shape of a woman’s bottom. Two line cooks and the dishwasher agreed Kiera Knightley was the most perfect girl god had made. The sauté cook liked a girl who looked brainy (whatever that might mean).

“We know you got your type, there, baker-man,” Mad Baz offered as he thrust forward his last four entrees of the night for Sherlock’s inspection.

“Oh? What d’you figure?” John challenged.

“That singing skull in the kids’ film—whatsit? Your man Jack Skellin’ton.” This brought snorts of good-natured laughter from the whole kitchen. “And Chef’s got his type— _short_ and sweet, innit?” More laughter. John gave one-finger salutes all around. Sherlock only shook his head and snapped at the server waiting to receive the entrees.

“Are those honestly the best pair of shoes you own?”

“Yes, Chef.”

Sherlock shook his head, wiped a microscopic spot of something from the rim of a plate.

“Work harder, make more tips, and buy some better shoes or you’re finished. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Chef.”

John took Mad Baz’s comments in his stride, “But weren’t we talking about women?” he offered, garnishing a portion of his chocolate gateau with its black pepper crème Anglaise and espresso drizzle.

“Just trying to be—whatsit—inclusive, yeh?” Mad Baz answered with an exaggerated shrug. “We’s all doin’ our thing, yeh? It’s all good.” He started switching off burners and gathering pans for the dish washer. “You got a type, then, type of girl?”

Sherlock stabbed the last two tickets onto a spike. “John likes that ginger one in Doctor Who,” he volunteered, and John caught his breath in surprise, and laughed.

“What—that ickle one? The Scottish girl?” Mad Baz put in.

“No, the other one,” Sherlock corrected, shooting John a sly smile. “The comedian.”

The kitchen erupted in disbelieving laughter. John defended himself. “She’s shaped like a woman should be shaped; I like the ginger hair; and I think she’d be a laugh to have a drink with.”

“Christ, ‘e’s gone and married ‘er already!”

“Aw, fuck off, the lot of you,” John jibed. He thrust a wooden spoon toward Sherlock. “What about you, then, Jack Skellington?”

“Do I have a type? Of woman?” Sherlock asked with obviously feigned ignorance.

“I believe that’s what we were talking about, yes,” John replied.

Just then, the petite, golden-blonde restaurant manager, Molly Hooper, tilted in on her impossibly high heels.

“Did you just fire Megan?” she demanded, leaning on tented fingers on the service counter.

Sherlock looked baffled.

“The server, Megan, the one I’m looking at for head-waiter. The only one I can rely on to always be on time, and sober, and to cover last minute when one of these tweaky party-boys you hire calls out with glitter-poisoning. You fired her because you don’t like her _shoes_?”

The entire kitchen was listening, though they kept up the proper motions to make it seem like they might not be.

“I didn’t fire her. I told her to buy better shoes _or else_ I’d fire her.”

John bit his lips, looking back and forth from Sherlock in his cobalt-blue chef’s coat with its pocket full of pens and instant-read thermometers, to Molly in her clinging black cocktail dress and side-swept hair clipped in place with some sparkly gewgaw John didn’t know the name of. There was a similar set to their jaws, and John worried momentarily they may come to blows.

“What is my job here?” Molly demanded. There was a barely-repressed snort from one of the line cooks, which he quickly covered up with a clatter of pans against the cooktop.

“Maitre d’,” Sherlock answered.

“My business card says _Restaurant_. _Manager_ ,” Molly replied, putting hard emphasis on the words, and John was nearly certain he saw steam leaking from her ears. “You run this gang of idiots back here, Sherlock—“

“Chef.”

“ _Sherlock_. And I run front of house. Tell the servers the specials and after that, don’t talk to them. They’re terrified of you as it is. And I don’t need the aggravation. If Megan quits because of you, you’ll find yourself in a world of hurt, you can be sure of it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Am I understood?” Molly demanded. There was an audible sucking of teeth from the sauté station.

Sherlock stared at her. But there was a sparkle in his eyes that John recognized; Molly was serving him his own dish, and Sherlock was gratefully eating it up. Molly pointed her finger at him, dropped her eyebrows together in the middle, vaguely threatening. Then she turned and walked out of the kitchen, shoving the door open in front of her with rather more force than John would have thought a little thing like her could be capable of. Sherlock’s eyes followed the undulations of her hips as she went.

“There’s _that_ question answered,” John offered, adopting an exaggeratedly goggle-eyed, lolling-tongue wolf’s expression. The cooks burst out in ribald laughter. Sherlock glared at him and John blew a kiss to him through the air as a peace offering, then went back to covering his sauces with plastic to take them to the walk-in.

Later—much later, near one a.m.—Sherlock switched off the last of the lights in the kitchen and John lead the two of them out into the alley; Sherlock locked up, checked again that the door was locked, then jiggled the knob until John knocked his hand away.

“Can’t help that,” Sherlock half-explained.

“I know you can’t. You’ll come to me tonight?” John had trapped Sherlock’s wrist in the circle of his thumb and fingers, pulled him closer with a steady tug, until their t-shirts’ fronts touched: funny spoof of 8bit games, meet The Chameleons circa 1988.

“Dunno if you’re my type,” Sherlock teased, pressing his hip against John’s torso. He leaned down so his mouth brushed John’s ear.

John laughed a bit, intoned seriously, “ _My business card says_ Restaurant. Manager _. Am I understood?_ . . .That’s you told, friend.”

“She’s tough and doesn’t take shit. It’s why I hired her.”

“That and her little rolling bottom under her skirt, there.” John squeezed Sherlock’s ass, as punctuation.

Sherlock’s hands found their way to the sides of John’s neck, his knobby thumbs trapping John’s jaw and tilting his face upward. “Her bottom had no part in my decision, I assure you. It is merely a delightful bonus.” His lips brushed John’s, the tip of his tongue flicked out against the corner of John’s mouth.

“Complimentary _amuse_ to get their mouths watering,” John teased.

“Something like that.” Sherlock trapped John’s upper lip between his own lips for a moment, pulled away, pressed in again, coaxing John’s mouth open with his insistent tongue. John maintained his grip on Sherlock’s bottom, pulled him closer, hummed into Sherlock’s mouth. “Mine’s closer,” Sherlock murmured.

“One of these times I’m going to get wise and not give you your way. As I feel sure I’ve mentioned once or seventeen times in the past, once we’re outside that door you’re not my boss.”

Sherlock leaned back, pouted like an ingénue.

John made a _no fair!_ face. “OK, OK, I surrender,” John sighed, and lead Sherlock by the wrist out of the alley.

As they walked the deserted pavement toward Sherlock’s cluttered, vaguely moldy-smelling flat in Baker Street, their shoulders or hands brushing now and then, John ventured. “You know it’s Molly’s birthday drinks on Sunday.”

“Think I heard a rumour to that effect,” Sherlock replied noncommittally.

“Well, seeing how you fancy her—“

“Do I?”

“And she obviously fancies you. . .”

“Does she?” Sherlock stopped walking. “You’re winding me up,” he said accusingly.

“Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you,” John scolded.

Sherlock shrugged, resumed walking, “All right, yes, of course I know she fancies me. _But!_ She is a genius running front of house and despite her, as you put it, _little rolling bottom_ , I am maintaining my professional distance.”

“Yeah, that’s lovely, very smart,” John agreed with a comical frown and a nod. “Sort of like you and I do. Keeping a professional distance of about negative-eight inches.”

“Fuck off.”

They’d reached Sherlock’s building and he unlocked the door, let John go in ahead of him.

“Now, why don’t you do the checking thing with this lock?” John asked, motioning behind him as they ascended the stairs to Sherlock’s first floor flat. “Any rogue murderer could waltz in your unlocked door and stab you with a lobster fork while you sleep.”

His clogs left behind on the landing, Sherlock reached down to peel off his socks, stretched his long toes against the carpet. “This is just my life, John. But that is my _restaurant_.”

In a strange way, this made perfect sense to John, and he let it go by without a snarky comment.

“Anyway,” John said, “Molly’s birthday drinks. Sunday. You’ll come?”

“Maybe.” Sherlock tugged his t-shirt up over his head and tossed it on the floor. He tipped his head toward the hallway. “Shower.” He extended his hand.

“. . .because I have an idea.”

“About the shower, I hope. Come on. _Now_.” Sherlock’s hand still hung in the air between them; he motioned and John grasped it.

“Dear Jesus, you’re bossy.”

“Because I’m the boss.” Sherlock started toward the bath with John in tow.

“Not right now, you’re not. I punched my card an hour ago.”

“You’re on salary.” Sherlock’s abdomen was impossibly taut for a man making a living sautéing everything but the puddings in duck fat (and he would probably do them, too, if John wasn’t so strident about boundaries). John did every ab-blasting nonsense workout there was and still had a bit of tummy-fluff layered over his muscular core. There was simply no justice.

“It’s a figure of speech.” John all but forgot his aching back and tired feet, staring at the hollow between Sherlock’s collarbones.

Sherlock dropped his checked pants to the floor, stepped out of them, stood nude with one arm bent behind his back, grasping the inside of his opposite elbow. “Well, if I’m not the boss, I suppose I can’t demand that you come jerk me off in the shower.” He stepped into the bathroom and John heard the water running as he hustled out of his own clothes, leaving a trail of discarded garments from the lounge to the loo. He was pushing down the waistband of his boxers while simultaneously working his t-shirt over his head when Sherlock’s rumbling, baritone voice floated from behind the half closed door, “Pretty please, John, won’t you come jerk me off in the shower? Please, please, pretty pl—“

He didn’t get to finish asking before John was standing under the shower spray with him, his chest against Sherlock’s long, sinewy arm, his mouth pressed against the blade-edge of Sherlock’s jaw.

“Thought you’d never get here,” Sherlock murmured, and then John squeezed a stream of spicy-smelling shower gel onto Sherlock’s chest and they both ran their hands through the blue-green trail, and found each other’s rapidly-hardening pricks, and there ended the evening’s banter, other than an occasional, _Mm. . ._ or _Fuck, yes._

*

“He promised he’d be here,” John reassured. “What are you drinking? Can I get you another?”

“Some kind of lemon martini thing. . .I forget what they’re calling it.” They were at a large, round table not far from the bar, a stack of gift bags piled on the high stool to Molly’s left, John seated to her right, cooks and servers from the restaurant filling out the rest of the group. Molly was all smiles and her cheeks were already flushed pink from the booze. Theirs was the loudest table by far, though there was a Mums’ Night Out nearby that showed potential.

John motioned to the server to bring Molly another drink, then pulled out his phone and quickly texted Sherlock.

_Where are you? Everyone’s already here. I’ve just ordered M’s second round._

It was several minutes before Sherlock texted back.

_Not sure I want to be seen in such a place._

It was a faux Mexican, near-chain better known for having 60 kinds of tequila than for anything coming out of the kitchen. It was probably all microwaved, and what passed for cheese was a human rights violation in some countries.

 _Don’t be a fucking snob._ John texted back.

“Is that Sherlock outside?” Molly said suddenly, gesturing with her newly-delivered banana-yellow martini. It sloshed a bit, over her hand and onto the table.

John turned his gaze toward the window.

“Yes, it bloody well is.”

_We can see you, you git. Come inside._

Sherlock looked around him, appeared almost panicked, but at last moved toward the door, pulled it open, and came in. His smile was small but genuine, and he carried a slim, ribbon-tied box under one arm. Molly moved her pile of gifts out of his way so he could take the seat beside her. Sherlock folded himself onto the stool, planted a kiss on Molly’s cheek.

“Many happy returns,” he said, and presented the little gift box with a flourish.

“Ta very much,” Molly replied, and began to work the ribbon off the box. “It’s nice to see you in civilian clothes; you clean up nice.” She leaned a few inches closer, sniffed her upturned button of a nose. “And you smell like something other than steak au poivre, so that’s a pleasant change.”

“I thank you,” Sherlock replied with a deferential nod, “And it’s nice to see you. . .well, this is quite like what you wear to work, isn’t it,” Sherlock offered, waving his long fingers vaguely in the direction of her dress.

“Yes, but it’s pink,” she pointed out. “I always like to wear pink on my birthday.”

John put in, “You look gorgeous. I’m sure Sherlock was getting to that part.” Molly smiled and looked down at the box in her hands, lifted away the lid. She peeled back a few layers of tissue paper and sucked in her breath.

“Sherlock!”

A buttery, fluttery bit of white silk unfurled between Molly’s fingers, and she slithered it toward her décolleté.

“This can’t be real,” Molly protested, spreading the corner of what was now taking shape as a large, square scarf printed all over in pale, silvery-grey skulls and diving, gliding birds. One of the (tweaky, party-boy) servers caught sight of it draped over Molly’s shoulder and let out a shriek.

“ _OhMyGodMcQueenScarf!_ Marry him immediately!” he demanded, his glossy lips shaping the words exaggeratedly. “Alexander McQueen will flip over in his grave if you don’t!”

Molly laughed, downed a large swallow of her drink, leaning away from the precious designer scarf as far as possible;  her lips pouted out to reach the sugared rim of her glass. “I doubt that’s on offer,” she said to the server. “But I share your enthusiasm.”

John looked across to Sherlock and shot him a grin and a wink that said, _You done good, my son,_ as clearly as his voice could have.

“At least just give him a little kiss, then,” John said jovially, “If you won’t make an honest man of him.” He leaned close to Molly, who still held the wide, frosted martini glass close to her mouth so that when John leaned in, it shielded their conversation from the rest of the table. “You know, the thing about Sherlock. . .” Molly’s eyes glittered conspiratorially. “He _loves_ kissing,” John finished.

Molly’s mouth dropped open. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

John drew an arch across his upper lip with the tip of his finger. “What’s all this, you think?” Molly squinted at it. “Whisker burn. He’s voracious. Can’t be stopped.” John leaned back, tilted his beer bottle and drained the last of it.

Molly turned slightly toward Sherlock. “Ah, that’s right!” she said, nodding, “Oral fixation. Because—you used to smoke, didn’t you?

 Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. He was chewing on the end of a slim plastic drink-stirrer. “What’s this?” he asked suspiciously. “Whatever he’s just told you is a lie and I’ll deny it until I’m dead.”

“He said you’re quite a fan of kissing.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said with a shrug, “Yes, that’s actually true.”

“Voracious, John says.”

“Probably accurate.”

“Kissed a lot of people, have you?” Molly challenged, with one raised eyebrow. A cat-in-cream smile broke across John’s face and he motioned to the server for another round. The rest of the table was breaking off into conversations in twos and threes; no one was paying attention to him, or to Sherlock or even to birthday girl Molly. Bit rude, that. Nonetheless, it worked in John’s favour. Because he had an idea.

“Loads. Hundreds. A thousand or more,” Sherlock said, and smoothed the front of his nicely tailored dress shirt, let one hand come to rest on his thigh beneath the table, the other wrapped around a rocks glass full of whisky on ice.

“Kissed a lot of _girls_?”

“Not a single one as lovely as you,” Sherlock replied, smooth as glass, never missing a beat.

Molly cut her glance toward John. “Listen to this one,” she prompted. “He’s downright charming when he’s out of that blue coat of his.”

“S’why I like him—he’s just a bleedin’ charmer,” John commented. “Well, that, plus all the kissing.” His eyebrows raised and lowered a few times, comically.

The party-boy server and Molly’s pet, Megan, started to gather their phones and cardigans and handbags, tossed cash on the table. Air-kisses and thanks-for-comings were exchanged and they took their leave, nodding at Sherlock and John as they went, turning back to wave one last time to Molly just before they went out the door.

“This is why I came late,” Sherlock offered, downing the last of his drink. “No one wants to party with the boss.”

“Oh, that’s not true. . .” Molly cooed. She patted his arm reassuringly, and left her hand resting on his wrist.

“Absolutely it’s true,” Sherlock said. He tipped his chin. “Look, now the rest of them are stretching and yawning and reaching for their wallets.”

Molly tsked, but Sherlock was right. Within a minute or two it was clear the party was breaking up.

John stopped the server to ask for the bill, and once Molly had been hugged and wished well by another few coworkers on their way out, John cleared his throat and raised the stakes. “He has this thing, too, with the kissing—a little trick he does.”

Sherlock’s mouth bowed up at the corners but he kept mum.

“What kind of trick?” Molly asked gamely. She looked back and forth from one to the other.

John reached for the pile of cash left in the center of the table amid the dead soldiers and half-empty troughs of bacon-stuffed potato skins and god-knew-what. “He can read back the menu to you; everything you’ve eaten or had to drink.”

She giggled. “That’s either very clever, or very disgusting.”

“Bit of both,” John allowed, shuffling the cash into his billfold and slipping his card onto the plastic tray for the server. “Mostly clever.”

“Well, we got so distracted I never did give you that thank-you kiss,” Molly offered, looking flirtily from under her eyelashes at Sherlock. “Let’s see how clever you are.” She slid the hand lingering on his wrist up toward his elbow and leaned in, pressed her narrow lips with their mostly-worn-off, candyfloss-pink lipstick against Sherlock’s mouth and lingered a few seconds, then pulled back. She turned to John. “Oh, but does it have to be more. . .like with tongues?” She released Sherlock’s elbow in favour of the last of her martini, but her other hand found its way to John’s knee, moved up a few inches, came to rest.

John motioned to the bill and his card, still lying nearby. “Sorry, I didn’t see,” he said, “I was. . . So, how did it--?” He shrugged, looked some combination of apologetic, curious, and crafty.

“Bit like this,” Molly offered, and leaned across the space between them to nestle her lips against John’s. She held the kiss for a moment, the backed off.

“Mm, I see,” John said, faux-analytical. “Very nice, but. . .”

“Pink lemonade-flavoured vodka— _dear god, why?_ —Limoncello, elderflower liqueur, but a cheap one. Sugar and fresh lemon juice.”

The server picked up the tray with the bill and left them. Molly turned back toward Sherlock but kept her hand on John’s thigh, her fingers scratching lightly at the inseam of his trousers.

“Well done, you!” she enthused.

“Granted, that was just a _chaste_ kiss,” Sherlock said modestly.

Without prelude, Molly went at Sherlock’s mouth with parted lips. He reciprocated, opening the way for her to dip her tongue in, to flick against his own passive but welcoming one. When Molly drew back John noticed her neck above the silk scarf was flushing the same pink as her cheeks.

“Tortilla chips from a bag, black olives from a can, pickled jalapeno rings from a plastic _bucket_ , salsa from a jar, ‘cheese’ from a spray can, this place is repellant.”

“Repellant. . .and fun!” Molly chided, grinning. The server dropped the little plastic tray back on the table and vanished again while John signed his name. Molly removed her hand from John’s thigh while he tucked his card into his billfold and his billfold into his trousers’ pocket. She licked the last of the sugar off the rim of her glass, tipped it back for the last swallow. “Anyway,” she said, fingering the button-placket of Sherlock’s shirt. “God, this is soft! Thank you, Sherlock, for the lovely gift. You’re too generous and it’s beautiful. I don’t deserve it.”

“Of course you do. That and more,” he purred, casting a quick glance over her shoulder toward John, who was looking for all the world as if he might leap from his stool and start pumping his fists victoriously. Sherlock looked back to Molly—glimmering, three-martini gaze, but still with her wits about her—and lowered his voice a half-step in both volume and tone as he asked, “Can we escort you home, then, Molly Hooper?”

“Jesus, yes!”

*

Molly’s bedroom was delightfully girly: seashell-pink walls; delicate, lacy bed coverings and all those twee little pillows women seemed to instinctively know the uses of; a white-painted wooden tray full of shapely glass bottles of perfume; an ornately-framed mirror over the dresser. It even smelled lovely, like late-summer flowers about to drop from their stems. It was clearly the bedroom of a grown girl with money and taste, and only herself to please. The whole thing hit John where he lived: men were pleasingly angular and musky and sexy-selfish, all of which greatly appealed, but all this ultra-feminine stuff hinted at lacy underclothes, and soft, clean-smelling skin, and painted toenails, and those had an entirely different—equally forceful—appeal.

There was a trail of discarded clothing from Molly’s front door, through her little sitting room (Sherlock kissed John’s neck, Molly unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt, John ran his hand along Molly’s backside, Sherlock slid the scarf away to kiss Molly’s neck, John unzipped Molly’s dress), down the short hallway (Molly yanked John’s t-shirt up over his head— _What’s the scar? I hit the handle on a pot full of caramel and it flew; wear my chef’s coat even cooking at home, now_ —Sherlock coaxed the straps of Molly’s dress down off her shoulders, John kissed the fullest part of her breast just above the— _mmm, lovely little lacy thing this is_ —edge of her brassiere) and through her bedroom (John unfastened Sherlock’s trousers— _No pants?! No, never. Even at work? Try not to think about it_ —and Molly draped her dress over the back of a rocking chair in the corner, and when she stepped out of her heels Sherlock had to stoop even lower to slide his tongue-tip across her bottom lip).

“You call the shots, by the way, Birthday Girl,” Sherlock murmured against Molly’s mouth, and John made a noise of agreement. Molly grinned, then sought John’s hand and guided it onto her bottom; he began to pet the silk-and-lace confection that only half-covered it, lingering lightly with fingertips whenever it became skin-on-skin. Molly tilted Sherlock’s jaw toward John’s face and leaned slightly back to watch them as they kissed, parted lips tugging and sucking at each other, tongues snaking out, then in, hide and seek.

“You know that pizza you ate is frozen, from one of those food service places that sells to hospitals and hotels.”

“Really? _Now?_ ” John tipped his head toward Sherlock. “Shut him up, would you?”

“Mm, with pleasure.” Molly pulled Sherlock by the wrist and John by the elbow until they were all three on the bed, Molly in the middle, propped up on her mad pile of pillows and on their elbows, John’s fingers slipping under the strap of her bra near her shoulder and sliding downward, Sherlock’s huge, spidery hand resting on Molly’s bare stomach. Sherlock and Molly began to kiss lazily, sweetly, and John went to work divesting her of her undergarments.

John’s tongue dipped under the cream-coloured lace of Molly’s bra cup and she sighed. Sherlock sucked gently at her bottom lip, tugged it between his teeth, and she gasped. She reached one hand behind and by that miraculous power women had, her bra came loose and John slid it down and away, humming his pleasure at the sight of pert, pink-nippled breasts, no more than a handful, nothing gone to waste. Sherlock’s hand slid up Molly’s torso to caress one, John leaned in to tongue his way around the other. Molly and Sherlock went on kissing.

“Cor, you really are voracious!” she laughed, tangling her fingers in Sherlock’s curls and giving an experimental tug.

“Sorry,” Sherlock mumbled.

“No, it’s lovely,” Molly gentled. “I was only joking. You’re lovely.” She lay back a bit, drew Sherlock down beside her and settled a little pillow behind his head. “Here.”

“Oh, so _that’s_ what these are for?” John asked, looking up at the two of them from near Molly’s middle. “They’re make-out pillows.”

“They’re three-way pillows,” Molly said slyly. “Keep everyone comfy at all times.”

“Do this a lot then?” John asked, and dragged the tip of his nose against her breast, nuzzling the way a cat would.

“I hope to in future,” she parried back, and Sherlock growled a bit, and kissed the edge of her jaw, and her chin, and then her mouth again, his fingers tracing the ropes of muscle in John’s shoulders and upper back as John worked his way lower, kissing a trail from Molly’s breasts, down her side, then in toward her navel, back out and down to the crease of her hip. She mewed and her little hand caressed the side of John’s face, the back of his neck, ruffling his hair the wrong way.

John made a questioning noise against the top of her thigh, and she slipped her fingers under the edge of her panties, started to slide them down. Sherlock broke their kiss long enough to add his long, knife- and burn-scarred fingers to John’s callused ones and her red-polished ones, and the three of them slipped the flimsy, pretty garment down her thighs. John caught Molly’s calf in one hand and thrilled to the smooth slide of her skin as she allowed him to raise her knee, push back her thigh. John shimmied his body down the bed, nestling his nose into the dusting of golden hair in the vee of Molly’s thighs, making her suck in her breath as his fingers gently opened the way for his lips and tongue. Molly moaned into Sherlock’s mouth, and John hummed his delight against her as he began to explore.

Molly’s kisses became more urgent, challenging Sherlock to keep up with her as she licked at his tongue, sucked his lips, pulled his hair a bit, ran her cunning little fingers up his well-muscled chest and down his long arm. He met her readily, let himself be kissed, tasted, nearly devoured, because he _loved_ it.

John had one arm clamped around Molly’s thigh, and was humming and moaning as his head rocked up and down between her legs. Molly broke away from Sherlock’s kiss—his lips were high pink, kiss-stung—and grabbed at the back of John’s head, rocking her hips up to meet him, and she fought against an urge to clamp her thighs around his ears and smother him, because clearly, he had his own way with a certain kind of kiss. She let her head fall back onto the mountain of three-way/make-out pillows, closed her eyes, and her whining cries were almost like singing as John stroked the tip of his cunning tongue around and around the impossibly hot, slick bead of her clit. Sherlock shifted, took Molly’s nipple in his mouth and licked, and sucked, and Molly came hard, thighs shaking, screaming against the heel of her hand.

John rose up a bit, beckoned Sherlock toward him, and they kissed deeply. Sherlock licked the inside of John’s lower lip, steadying John’s chin with a curled finger beneath it. Sherlock moaned contentedly. Molly caught her breath, watching Sherlock lick the taste of her out of John’s mouth.

“Salted butter,” Sherlock murmured, and John smiled. “Clover honey.” John hummed agreement, parted his lips to invite Sherlock back between them. “Vanilla extract.” Sherlock glanced toward Molly with a slightly mischievous smile. “Pink lemonade-flavoured vodka.”

“Stop it, you,” she protested, gently pushing his shoulder.

“No, really, he’s right,” John said, and placed a quick kiss on the inside of her pushed-back knee. “What’s next, birthday girl? More?” John nuzzled against the inside of her thigh and the tone of his question was more request than offer, and hearing it sent a flush of pleasure through Molly’s pelvis.

“ _He_ likes kissing, too,” Sherlock near-whispered, winking in Molly’s direction as his long fingers slipped gently up her torso from hip to navel, between her breasts, up to her collarbone, and across.

“I want your fingers,” Molly breathed, and caught Sherlock’s hand in both of hers, pulled it up toward her open mouth, sucked and licked his first two fingers up to the middle knuckle, then released them. Sherlock readily obeyed her request and slipped his fingers between the warm, swollen lips of her pussy, stroked gently up and down her clit until she let her head fall back again, and her mouth came open, and she began to pant and roll her hips against him. John attended to her breasts with his mouth and fingers, left a trail of kisses from her nipple to her throat, which she bared to him by turning her head.

Sherlock slid his fingers downward, found Molly’s entrance wet and warm, and she opened her legs a bit for him and he pressed into her, the heel of his hand giving friction above, and Molly ground her hips against him. John alternately watched Sherlock’s hand as it began to rock in and out of her, Molly’s face as she licked her lips and gasped and rolled her eyes back. John pressed his lips to her neck, kissed and sucked and whispered encouragement, _god you’re  lovely. . .yes, precious. . .he does have lovely hands, doesn’t he. . .?_

Sherlock slipped his fingers out and up, and once they were gliding against her clit again, it wasn’t long before Molly was coming once more, her fingernails digging into John’s back, Sherlock leaning close to her and rumbling into her ear that she was _fantastic. . .so sweet. . .pretty, pretty thing. . ._

She pulled them both by the back of their heads as close to her face as she could, kissed them each in turn—deeply,  though now more gently—then wordlessly suggested they kiss each other some more, which was a most welcome suggestion, wordless or otherwise.

“Something for you two, now. . .” Molly said quietly. “Can I just—watch you, and touch you? And maybe kiss you?. . .while you. . .?”

“If that’s what you want,” Sherlock replied, and ran his fingers through her hair; she shivered and closed her eyes.

“Mm, yes,” she confirmed, and there followed quite a bit of untangling and relocating of limbs, delayed now and then by kisses, and lingering touches, and giggles at being tickled accidentally on purpose.

Sherlock and John melted together at the shoulders and hips and raised knees, as they licked each other’s fingers and their own palms and reached down between their bodies and took each other in hand with heavy moans that sounded so much like relief. Molly leaned over Sherlock’s back, her fingers in his hair, stroking his fringe back from his forehead, her breasts propped prettily on his upper arm. She moved to drag her fingertips along John’s contracting/relaxing bicep. He huffed a gasp and his mouth sought Sherlock’s; Molly sighed contentedly as they kissed, and her gaze drifted down toward their thrusting, sliding hands and jutting hips.

“That’s gorgeous,” she breathed, and moved to nuzzle her face in close to theirs, licked at the corner of John’s mouth, caught Sherlock’s eager bottom lip between her own and pulled. As she moved to curl around Sherlock’s back again, John let out a heavy groan that ended in a whine, and he shuddered, his face buried against Sherlock’s long throat. Sherlock’s hand wrapped around John’s stuttering fingers and guided him along Sherlock’s length for just a few strokes until Sherlock, too, was coming with held breath and an expression like pleasant surprise on his closed-eyed face.

Molly peppered them both with kisses on necks, shoulders, eyelids. . .stroked her fingertips over their chests and arms. . .then reached under her prettily-fixed-up bed and passed them a hand towel. She disappeared from the room and they heard the door to the bath close, faint sounds of water running. John and Sherlock wiped themselves up a bit, exchanged a few more kisses, both endlessly smiling.

“So, this idea you had. . .” Sherlock ventured, whispering against the side of John’s face.

“Mmm?”

“I’d say it was your best since the chocolate gateau.”

Sherlock could feel the smile spreading across John’s face, through his lips against John’s cheek.

“She said she wants to do it again in future,” John offered quietly. “So much for your professional distance.”

*

Several nights later, Sherlock was describing the specials as the servers picked at the staff meal, leaning on their elbows against the service counter in the kitchen; John was stirring fruit compote and keeping one eye on some cinnamon-infused espresso reducing in a saucepan. Molly tipped in on her red-soled pumps, tossed the latest issue of _Restauranteur_ magazine on the service counter for all to see. John crossed the kitchen to look. There on the cover was Sherlock, ice-blue eyes narrowed, cobalt-blue chef’s coat buttoned up and pressed, arms crossed in front of his chest with a glinting, upward-pointed chef’s knife in one hand. Beside his photo was the headline: _Is Sherlock Holmes the **LUCKIEST MAN IN LONDON?**_

 Molly laid one manicured finger on the magazine’s cover, tapped the headline three times. She fixed a slightly crooked smile on Sherlock’s face, glanced at John and then back again to Sherlock.

All she said before turning to go was, “ _Yes._ ”

 

-END-


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